I was thinking about this whole fiasco in congress (a.k.a. the spendulus bill), and all the big changes in the White House—you know, closing prisons, releasing terror suspects, frightening the tax-paying populace into compliance, and best of all, "Obama Time" (otherwise known as tardiness)—and I wondered what all the world must be thinking. I mean, I know they have other things on their minds, like wildfires, and fuel shortages, and gun violence rising in the wake of no-guns laws... which is probably why they're all the more delighted to watch the silly goings on here in the good ol' USA.
Think about it: U.S. features on the evening news must be one of the best reality shows ever, if you don't live in the States. Look at those senators bickering amongst themselves, fighting for power by sneaking things onto bills. Watch the newest rock star and his well-dressed family strut their stuff. See how the huge companies that flourished are folding now? Serves them right. And those CEOs, still making millions in bonuses alone, stuttering when their leer jet is discovered behind some curtain? Yeah, well, that's how it is on TV. Oh wait, this is really real.
Does that reality show thought make you cringe? It does me. It's starting to feel like the U.S. is the popular, attractive, athletic kid in high school that everyone liked, and admired, and secretly envied... and then when that kid screwed up—gained too much weight, or failed a class, or was caught misbehaving somewhere—he or she fell from grace. And a lot of those people who shook their heads and said "what a shame" were really, underneath, chuckling evilly. Because people are cruel, aren't they? They may pretend to think it tragic, but often they're hiding a smirk behind a carefully placed hand. Don Henley said it best: "People love it when you lose; they love dirty laundry."
These days, it feels like we're that kid. We're flabby. We've failed at some things. And our respectability? Sadly lacking. Just look at our leaders. I'm still not ashamed to be an American, because I know we're not all represented by the boobs on the news, but I'm not sleeping so well when I imagine what we look like to the rest of the world.
P.S. Just discovered a site, and boy I'm learning a lot. Take a peek, if you'd like—right here.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Boy, I really stink at this mom thing
Sometimes, I just hope that God isn’t watching me too carefully. (Yeah, I know He is, but just humor me for a minute or two. It makes me feel a bit less guilty.)
It’s Day 5 of my current illness, a strange conglomerate of sore throat, cold, cough, and sinus issues. I am tired, still sick, and generally very irritable. I want to sleep, and sleep some more, but I can’t breathe when I sleep, so it’s often an exercise in frustration and futility. Mostly, I want quiet. And I have an almost-4-year-old who won’t stop talking. So, quiet has not been had.
And today was my talkative darling's Valentine’s Day party at preschool. I had made invitations, he had helped, we’d taped SweetTart hearts to them, we’d gotten fruit and veggies to take into his class, etc. Mostly, I couldn’t wait to drop him off so I could come home and sleep a bit. In silence. Sitting up in the comfy chair so I could take in breath while sleeping. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Doesn’t that sound nice?
Until it all fell into jeopardy; my son told me his stomach hurt this morning. He visited the bathroom upon my recommendation, had success, said he felt better, and voila, we were on our way with bags to preschool. Except. Then his stomach hurt again. Then, as we drove, he wanted to not go in, and to just return home and play.
This is where it gets ugly, folks. This is where I’m hoping some lovely angel was singing to God really loudly and drowning out the honking, sniffling, crabby voice that emerged from my mouth as I had a little “talking to” with my kid:
“Okay, now you understand, if you’re sick, there’s no rowdy playing. If your tummy hurts, you will act like a kid whose tummy hurts, and stay still, and lie on the couch, and NOT jump off the stool 50 times. Because Mommy really needs this time to get things done.”
“Okay, I know. I won’t jump off the stool.”
“That’s right, because sick kids don’t jump off stools. If you’re well enough to play hard, then you’re well enough to go to preschool.”
“Okay, I know.”
We drove to school, every void in the car filled with his happy little voice; then we dropped the things off at school, and I gave him another chance. Still he complained about the tummy. I reminded him again of the stark truth of illness: “Remember, this is not going to be special play time with Mommy. Mommy is still sick too. And Mommy needs to get things done. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We left the school parking lot, on to the library, and I parked and slid our books into the book drop. We started to drive away. And then he blindsided me: “I think I feel well enough to go.”
“Now you’re just playing head games with me. Are you trying to make me angry?” Yes, I really said that to a 3 1/2-year-old. I did. And it gets worse. He said,
“No, Mommy. I can jump off stools now.”
“So what do you want to do?” I asked this, as we were driving in the opposite direction, still not far from the school, but moving away from it. (I didn’t ask it in a very nice voice, I’ll admit.)
“I want to go.”
“Are you SURE?”
“Yes, I want to go.”
“Fine.” I turned onto a side road, into someone’s driveway, redirected the car, and started back in the direction of the school. And then he said,
“Hurry up.”
Well, people, I freaked. I said, “Don’t you ever tell me to hurry up, you ungrateful little child! I don’t ever want to hear those words come out of your mouth, especially after you’ve been playing mind games with me!” Without a moment’s hesitation, my sweet little boy burst into tears, of course, and they rivuleted their way down his soft cheeks, and at first I was righteously indignant and enraged, and then I felt bad. And then, worse. He probably did have a stomachache. It probably did stop aching. Even if it didn’t, I shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. And mostly, I'm ashamed to say, I thought Oh CRAP, what are those teachers going to think when they see his little reddish wet eyes? I almost turned around and made him come home anyway, but the thought of him wailing about missing the party and me being sick and irritable and a wretch in general was too much to bear. We drove back to school, and I was calm by then: I gave him one last option out in case he was still feeling ill. But the poor kid was probably terrified at the thought of being home alone with me—he opted to go in. So I walked him in.
And I drove home, once again wondering what in the world God was thinking when he gave me this innocent little soul to ruin and rankle. Good grief, I’m not cut out for this.
There, I’ve confessed my ugly moment for today. If there are more to come, I’ll confess them in private and spare you the pain of bearing witness.
The worst part is that now, I feel too awful to nap.
It’s Day 5 of my current illness, a strange conglomerate of sore throat, cold, cough, and sinus issues. I am tired, still sick, and generally very irritable. I want to sleep, and sleep some more, but I can’t breathe when I sleep, so it’s often an exercise in frustration and futility. Mostly, I want quiet. And I have an almost-4-year-old who won’t stop talking. So, quiet has not been had.
And today was my talkative darling's Valentine’s Day party at preschool. I had made invitations, he had helped, we’d taped SweetTart hearts to them, we’d gotten fruit and veggies to take into his class, etc. Mostly, I couldn’t wait to drop him off so I could come home and sleep a bit. In silence. Sitting up in the comfy chair so I could take in breath while sleeping. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Doesn’t that sound nice?
Until it all fell into jeopardy; my son told me his stomach hurt this morning. He visited the bathroom upon my recommendation, had success, said he felt better, and voila, we were on our way with bags to preschool. Except. Then his stomach hurt again. Then, as we drove, he wanted to not go in, and to just return home and play.
This is where it gets ugly, folks. This is where I’m hoping some lovely angel was singing to God really loudly and drowning out the honking, sniffling, crabby voice that emerged from my mouth as I had a little “talking to” with my kid:
“Okay, now you understand, if you’re sick, there’s no rowdy playing. If your tummy hurts, you will act like a kid whose tummy hurts, and stay still, and lie on the couch, and NOT jump off the stool 50 times. Because Mommy really needs this time to get things done.”
“Okay, I know. I won’t jump off the stool.”
“That’s right, because sick kids don’t jump off stools. If you’re well enough to play hard, then you’re well enough to go to preschool.”
“Okay, I know.”
We drove to school, every void in the car filled with his happy little voice; then we dropped the things off at school, and I gave him another chance. Still he complained about the tummy. I reminded him again of the stark truth of illness: “Remember, this is not going to be special play time with Mommy. Mommy is still sick too. And Mommy needs to get things done. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We left the school parking lot, on to the library, and I parked and slid our books into the book drop. We started to drive away. And then he blindsided me: “I think I feel well enough to go.”
“Now you’re just playing head games with me. Are you trying to make me angry?” Yes, I really said that to a 3 1/2-year-old. I did. And it gets worse. He said,
“No, Mommy. I can jump off stools now.”
“So what do you want to do?” I asked this, as we were driving in the opposite direction, still not far from the school, but moving away from it. (I didn’t ask it in a very nice voice, I’ll admit.)
“I want to go.”
“Are you SURE?”
“Yes, I want to go.”
“Fine.” I turned onto a side road, into someone’s driveway, redirected the car, and started back in the direction of the school. And then he said,
“Hurry up.”
Well, people, I freaked. I said, “Don’t you ever tell me to hurry up, you ungrateful little child! I don’t ever want to hear those words come out of your mouth, especially after you’ve been playing mind games with me!” Without a moment’s hesitation, my sweet little boy burst into tears, of course, and they rivuleted their way down his soft cheeks, and at first I was righteously indignant and enraged, and then I felt bad. And then, worse. He probably did have a stomachache. It probably did stop aching. Even if it didn’t, I shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. And mostly, I'm ashamed to say, I thought Oh CRAP, what are those teachers going to think when they see his little reddish wet eyes? I almost turned around and made him come home anyway, but the thought of him wailing about missing the party and me being sick and irritable and a wretch in general was too much to bear. We drove back to school, and I was calm by then: I gave him one last option out in case he was still feeling ill. But the poor kid was probably terrified at the thought of being home alone with me—he opted to go in. So I walked him in.
And I drove home, once again wondering what in the world God was thinking when he gave me this innocent little soul to ruin and rankle. Good grief, I’m not cut out for this.
There, I’ve confessed my ugly moment for today. If there are more to come, I’ll confess them in private and spare you the pain of bearing witness.
The worst part is that now, I feel too awful to nap.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Why I love second-hand
My most recent craigslist purchase was a small, skinny little stereo. (I have already confessed my addition to craigslist, as explained in agonizing detail here.) The stereo was quite cute, much smaller and simpler than my decade-old Aiwa system (although that Aiwa had much better speakers—3-ways, totally superior to the newbies). Anyway. The little stereo popped up one morning on my monitor, and I wrote the seller and expressed my admiration for the item. I was the first to respond, and so the next evening I found myself happily driving to the Strip District with my not-so-crisp $20 bill in my coat pocket.
(On a side note, my craigslist habit has actually served me quite well, in that it’s forced me to explore parts of the city I would otherwise avoid. That Strip District foray was certainly not my first trip to our fair city’s own market district, but it was my first venture onto Railroad Street in quite some time—and my first look at some swank little lofts in an old factory that’s been converted… There are some really interesting and inviting city-living options these days.)
Back to the stereo: the seller showed me that it worked great, played CDs with ease, and took up a fraction of the space consumed by Old Stereo. I bought it and carried it to my car, flush with success. And then when I got it home, and we’d plugged in all the parts and hooked up all the wires, we were perplexed to learn that it buzzed. There was a strange electrical background noise that sang out insistently behind the music and voices. How odd. Todd gave me that look—the “you know you got scammed” look that he reserves for my unapproved craigslist purchases. I bit my tongue and pretended not to notice the annoying sound. In truth, it seemed to become less noticeable the longer the stereo was on. And honestly? For $20? I didn’t mind too much. I had a forgiving heart about that little slim little stereo.
Fast forward a day or two, and the kid and I were turning on the radio, noting (not for the first time) that odd buzzing noise. Even Marcus could hear it clearly. I sat on the floor, looking for the perfect CD to play, and while I perused I punched some random buttons on the front of the stereo. Lo and behold, toggling off the backlight button—in addition to turning off the backlight behind the display—caused the buzzing to cease. Hmmph.
And then I recalled a note in the seller’s ad about the backlight not working. I’d forgotten.
And the mystery was solved. When you turned the stereo on, you could either switch off the backlight, or simply wait for a minute or two, and that buzzing sound would stop. Why did this not annoy me? Why was I not frustrated with such a noticeable and intrusive idiosyncrasy? Because the stereo was used; my expectations were lower. Because I knew even before purchase that the item in question, although appealing, was also not new, not perfect, and therefore prone to system weaknesses and perhaps even failures.
And then it hit me: That is why I love craigslist, why I love used things. My last big craigs purchase? Our current couch. It’s a nice, comfy piece, Ethan Allen, it’s good quality and reliable… but the pattern on the seat cushions is slightly faded from contact with too many backsides, I suppose. The piping on those edges is a bit worn and thinning. Why was I not angry when I noticed this, after we’d purchased the piece and cleaned it? Because I knew there was a chance of that sort of imperfection. I knew, going in, that because the piece had been out there in the world, it couldn’t be perfect. I was getting a deal, but the deal had a catch: used goods have flaws. And I don’t mind, because I know that going in.
I must try harder to remember that my craigslist philosophy applies to us humans, too. We are none of us flawless. We’re out there, used, abused, we’ve been sat on too many times, our backlights are a little bit tired and we groan when someone asks us to brighten up for too long. I must remember to expect less from people. In the same way that craigslist is filled with good deals that are imperfect, my world of human contact is filled with good souls who have scratches, and dents, and are faded.
But oh, have you seen the difference in them if someone loves them again and gives them a second chance? What a deal you will find sometimes, when you acknowledge potential shortcomings up front. I am hoping that others do that for me.
(On a side note, my craigslist habit has actually served me quite well, in that it’s forced me to explore parts of the city I would otherwise avoid. That Strip District foray was certainly not my first trip to our fair city’s own market district, but it was my first venture onto Railroad Street in quite some time—and my first look at some swank little lofts in an old factory that’s been converted… There are some really interesting and inviting city-living options these days.)
Back to the stereo: the seller showed me that it worked great, played CDs with ease, and took up a fraction of the space consumed by Old Stereo. I bought it and carried it to my car, flush with success. And then when I got it home, and we’d plugged in all the parts and hooked up all the wires, we were perplexed to learn that it buzzed. There was a strange electrical background noise that sang out insistently behind the music and voices. How odd. Todd gave me that look—the “you know you got scammed” look that he reserves for my unapproved craigslist purchases. I bit my tongue and pretended not to notice the annoying sound. In truth, it seemed to become less noticeable the longer the stereo was on. And honestly? For $20? I didn’t mind too much. I had a forgiving heart about that little slim little stereo.
Fast forward a day or two, and the kid and I were turning on the radio, noting (not for the first time) that odd buzzing noise. Even Marcus could hear it clearly. I sat on the floor, looking for the perfect CD to play, and while I perused I punched some random buttons on the front of the stereo. Lo and behold, toggling off the backlight button—in addition to turning off the backlight behind the display—caused the buzzing to cease. Hmmph.
And then I recalled a note in the seller’s ad about the backlight not working. I’d forgotten.
And the mystery was solved. When you turned the stereo on, you could either switch off the backlight, or simply wait for a minute or two, and that buzzing sound would stop. Why did this not annoy me? Why was I not frustrated with such a noticeable and intrusive idiosyncrasy? Because the stereo was used; my expectations were lower. Because I knew even before purchase that the item in question, although appealing, was also not new, not perfect, and therefore prone to system weaknesses and perhaps even failures.
And then it hit me: That is why I love craigslist, why I love used things. My last big craigs purchase? Our current couch. It’s a nice, comfy piece, Ethan Allen, it’s good quality and reliable… but the pattern on the seat cushions is slightly faded from contact with too many backsides, I suppose. The piping on those edges is a bit worn and thinning. Why was I not angry when I noticed this, after we’d purchased the piece and cleaned it? Because I knew there was a chance of that sort of imperfection. I knew, going in, that because the piece had been out there in the world, it couldn’t be perfect. I was getting a deal, but the deal had a catch: used goods have flaws. And I don’t mind, because I know that going in.
I must try harder to remember that my craigslist philosophy applies to us humans, too. We are none of us flawless. We’re out there, used, abused, we’ve been sat on too many times, our backlights are a little bit tired and we groan when someone asks us to brighten up for too long. I must remember to expect less from people. In the same way that craigslist is filled with good deals that are imperfect, my world of human contact is filled with good souls who have scratches, and dents, and are faded.
But oh, have you seen the difference in them if someone loves them again and gives them a second chance? What a deal you will find sometimes, when you acknowledge potential shortcomings up front. I am hoping that others do that for me.
Frosty ennui
The view out the east-facing windows early was spectacular this morning: White snow, dimly illuminated homes with remnants of heat escaping from chimneys, and behind it all a glowing rosy line of sky at the horizon.
It almost made up for last night's ridiculously frigid temperature. Almost.
Boy, do we have a raging case of cabin fever at our house. I daydream of toasty sunshine, balmy breezes, and bare toes several times daily. I am sustained only by the passing of weeks on the calendar, by the knowledge that each day increases by a minute or so in duration, by the promise of change (in the weather--NOT in the White House. Puh-LEEEZ). It's hard to find inspiration to write much of value these days. I have no trouble kvetching about the weather, but Lord knows that's not going to change anything outside, now is it?
Please excuse me—I need to step into my mind for a moment now.
It almost made up for last night's ridiculously frigid temperature. Almost.
Boy, do we have a raging case of cabin fever at our house. I daydream of toasty sunshine, balmy breezes, and bare toes several times daily. I am sustained only by the passing of weeks on the calendar, by the knowledge that each day increases by a minute or so in duration, by the promise of change (in the weather--NOT in the White House. Puh-LEEEZ). It's hard to find inspiration to write much of value these days. I have no trouble kvetching about the weather, but Lord knows that's not going to change anything outside, now is it?
Please excuse me—I need to step into my mind for a moment now.
Monday, February 2, 2009
It's good to be king.
Just ask these guys. Or any of the rest of those Stiller boys. What a game.
(Of course, I don't mean "king" in a literal sense; as you well know, socialism permits no aristocracy.)
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Frozen moments
Every now and then, you come upon a moment in time that merits preservation, just as it is, so that it can be revisited time and again for years and years. I had a couple of those recently.
The first? It came earlier on the day that I snapped this photo. It was mid-morning on a recent weekday, and all potential errands had been shelved after the kid and I gazed out the window and then studied the forecast on television. Big, fat flakes were flying, the heavy kind of flakes that accumulate in a matter of minutes. I had decided to dedicate the day to home chores and possibly baking, since a cold, home-bound day is good for little else.
I was folding some laundry in my bedroom; the boy was playing in the living room, just around the corner (our home is a ranch-style house on one floor), and the heater had just kicked on again. We’d forgone the radio to take a noise hiatus, and were simply enjoying a quiet morning in our cozy sanctuary. As I folded, I heard the air rushing from the vent, listened to the soft rustling of the bedclothes I was folding, and breathed in the scent of clean sheets as it wafted over me. And then, in the next room, I heard my little son singing softly to himself; I’m a little teapot, short and stout. But he didn’t sing the words aloud, he simply hummed the tune over and over, in the quiet high voice he uses when he’s unaware that anyone is listening. I could hear the sound of his Duplo blocks too, the small rattle of plastic pieces jumbling together as he searched through a pile for just the right one. He hummed, the blocks clicked, the sheets emitted that gentle scent, and outside the window the picturesque snow descended gracefully, blanketing the world.
There was nowhere else I’d choose to be, in that moment, than in that moment.
The other moment? I met a friend for breakfast last Saturday morning in the Strip District. I stood outside our designated meeting spot, in frigid temperatures, and watched hordes of people stream past the restaurant, nearly all of them clad in black and gold. A large, incredibly dirty delivery truck lumbered by—and written in the dust on the back doors of the vehicle were the words “Here We Go, Steelers.” I stood in line at a different store a bit later, and the middle-aged fellow in front of me sported both expensive loafers and a most ridiculous gold beret with a mishmash of Steeler paraphernalia clipped to its outer edges. My friend and I walked Penn Avenue, the well-known phrases of “Here We Go” ringing in our ears, making our way among throngs of people who sported black and gold fashions and were purchasing even more. Every kiosk featured some of the desired colors, and the Strip’s favorite paper and party goods store boasted a line out the door, perhaps 20 people deep, all waiting to spend hard-earned bucks on Steeler-themed gear for the big game. At one point, as we threaded our way along the cold, crowded sidewalk, gold confetti filled the air for no apparent reason other than the confetti operator simply couldn’t wait another minute to celebrate our glorious team.
I know it’s just a sport. I know the fellows who play the sport are mere humans, with faults and foibles like the rest of us. But oh, what a wonderful feeling, the electricity in the air, the smiles on every face. We’ve lost our collective mind over a team, and it’s such a delightful experience.
After all, God created football, too.
P.S. The best part? Kurt Warner seems to be a great guy who appreciates his many blessings. See this site if you’d like to know more.
And rest assured that whatever the outcome of the game, a deserving team will accept that Lombardi trophy tonight.
P.P.S. I only hope we don't embarrass those poor Cardinals too badly. ; )
Friday, January 30, 2009
Shameless self-promo
Hey all, here are some of the fruits of my painting labors for the past few months. I wish I could say I whipped these out in a couple of weeks (and in reality, the hours invested would amount to far less than that span of time)…but the blocks of time that I can carve out and justify for painting are just not as frequent as I’d like them to be.
I also did a commissioned piece in the fall, which I didn't show here because I didn't like it as well as these two; they were simply for sheer enjoyment. I'm partial to the cow. I love cows. Aren’t they beautiful? And so expressive? Whoever coined the many unkind phrases about cows, especially those sayings that connote cows with unattractiveness, must have never had the opportunity to gaze into a bovine face and study its depth and loveliness.
However, I digress. The real point was supposed to be that I will work for commissions. And very, very reasonably, I might add—I’ll paint just about anything for less than ONE MILLION DOLLARS. (This stated with my pinky in the corner of my mouth…) (Ha ha ha ha.) Okay, in truth, I work for a fraction of that—truly, a fraction. As in, about 1/20,000 of that amount. Seriously. I’m going to tool around and paint stuff anyway, so I might as well be painting something for you. Right?
Food for thought—or some “cud” for you to chew on. Happy weekend.
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